


The Ballad of Daryl’s Bow

by PraxusGoforth



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Deleted Scenes, Gen, the bickering dixon bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PraxusGoforth/pseuds/PraxusGoforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The epic tale of hunting, drinking, bickering, and how the Dixon boys lost Daryl’s old crossbow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Daryl’s Bow

Daryl’s shoulders are tensed, ready to draw the crossbow up at a moment’s notice, eyes scanning the riverbank on either side. The water around his ankles is icy cool, the air so sticky hot that only a half hour of walking has left him drenched with sweat on the early summer day. He spots movement in some bulrushes to his left, about twenty feet distant. Instantly the bow is up, ignoring the scope and honing in on the muddy clump through squinted eyes, finger almost tight against the trigger. A sparrow flies out noisily with an offended screech. 

“Damn it Merle, how are we supposed to hunt with you making that racket?” He turns angrily to his brother, crossbow dipping. 

Merle lets out a particularly loud string of verse in conclusion to his song, artfully interspersing scatological references and profanity with what was once a gospel hymn. It even rhymed. “We ain’t supposed to be hunting, baby brother. I know you only dragged me out here to get me away from that little Asian feller.” He splashes up the shallow riverbed to Daryl, passing him and taking the lead. 

“Yeah, and that’s your own fault after you swore up and down you were gonna mind your manners today,” he says, the anger ebbing into sullenness as he stomps through the water to catch up. “And we need the meat anyway.” Merle pushes him aside when they’re shoulder to shoulder, almost roughly enough to get that anger back up again. In the brief squabble over leading position that ensues, Merle attempts to shove his brother away until they’re knocking each other with their shoulders, feet trying to trip each other on the slippery rocks. Daryl finally throws a punch at Merle’s head, which is neatly dodged, almost sending the younger man face first into the river. With a short laugh Merle breaks away and trudges out of the river to the bank. He stops to splash a handful of water over his sweaty neck. 

“There’s no hunting here boy, ain’t you seen all them walkers around? They done scared away all the game. Selfish little bastards, gotta eat people and all the food around here too.” He splashes some water in the direction of the two walkers in advanced stages of decay who have congregated on the opposite side of the river at the sound of their scuffle. They are barred from the water by a dense thicket of weeds and debris, weakly snarling with outstretched hands. 

Daryl spares them one glance before joining his brother on the bank. “Let’s get goin’. We’re heading up those hills up north. Walkers don’t go up there much, they don’t like it or they can’t climb so good. That’s where the game’s at.” He brushes past Merle and resumes the lead, ignoring the snide chuckle from behind his back that sounds too much like victory.  


\---------------------------

Daryl sinks to a crouch silently, weight even on the balls of his feet so he doesn't disturb the bed of dead leaves. The hard point of the crossbow bolt aims at a fat tom turkey some thirty feet distant, barely visible against the forest floor with its mottled brown and black feathers. He lets out a slow breath in preparation for the shot, an instant away from pulling the trigger, when a gun cocks by his ear. 

He turns a fraction of an inch, a glare on his face and eyes on the bird, and mutters out the side of his mouth, “The hell you doin’? Save your bullet and get that gun away from my face, I got this.” Before Merle can respond or take the shot himself, he steadies himself again and squeezes the trigger. The bolt flies true, piercing the bird so suddenly through the heart and lungs it doesn't even have time for a death squawk. He doesn't turn to see Merle narrow his eyes and lower his gun, the ghost of a glare on his hard face. 

Daryl makes a soft jubilant sound at the sight of the fallen bird and stands to retrieve his catch. It won’t feed the group for long with all the mouths they've got now, but it’s one of the biggest turkeys he’s seen out here and looks like plenty good eating. “Couple more of those and we’ll be set for—” He breaks off suddenly at a tremendous crashing through the forest. A dark shape comes swooping out of nowhere and snatches up the dead turkey before Daryl has a chance to do more than raise his unloaded bow pointlessly. Without a pause the figure launches itself back into the forest and out of sight. 

There is one beat of stunned silence between the brothers until Daryl shouts, “Come on Merle, he’s got our stuff!” and they go racing after him. 

A hundred yards from the kill site, they’re forced to stop and take stock of their surroundings. Now in the pocket of hills, the terrain is uneven and there are too many dips and ravines where anyone might hide. The forest is dense, and though the brush isn't as thick as he's seen it in some parts, visibility is poor. Daryl holds out a hand for silence as they try to slow their breaths and listen. Nothing. “That would have been a good time to shoot, bro.”

Merle shrugs. “I’m saving my bullet. Besides, that wasn't no walker. Looked like Bigfoot you ask me.”

“Yeah, just what we need,” Daryl mutters. They hear the crackle of footsteps on leaves just over the next bound and he takes a second to reload his bow before they’re moving again. They’re coming up on him now, no point in moving stealthy at this distance and impossible anyway. Their turkey thief does look a lot like Bigfoot, tall and apparently wearing some kind of furry coat. He’s covering too much ground and looks like he knows these hills better than they do. Without a word, Merle and Daryl catch each other’s eyes and some communication seems to pass between them. Merle nods and then they’re splitting off, Daryl keeping on the trail of the man but veering above and to the left, herding him back to lower ground while Merle slips away, hugging the side of the hill as he scampers to its base. 

He stops behind a thick tree and lies in wait, gun holstered but bayoneted hand at the ready. The sounds of two pairs of crashing feet gets louder until he knows they’re right up on him and he bursts from behind the tree in a furious tackle, a wordless battle cry ripping from his throat. He dives directly into the Bigfoot man and they go tumbling, Daryl close on his heels and jumping out of the way. 

It’s a miracle no one gets stabbed but within moments Merle is on top of the turkey thief and delivering a rain of blows to his face. “You sumbitch, I’m gonna teach you a lesson, I will,” he growls, punctuating his words with another meaty punch. The thief emits several high pitched shrieks and tries to protect his face with his hands. Merle grabs one and pins it down with his stump of an arm. “Oh no you don’t, you take what I’m givin’ ya.”

“Hey Merle, stop it! He’s an old man,” Daryl cuts in suddenly. He grabs his brother’s shoulder and pushes him off with a grunt. 

Merle sits in a semi-sprawl, waving his bayonet wildly. “Old man or no, no one steals from me and gets away with it!” He barely sounds angry and Daryl suspects he’s enjoying this more than not. Everyone goes silent for a moment, Daryl halfheartedly keeping his bow pointed at the Bigfoot man’s head as he breaks into sobs, moaning and rolling on the ground. The brothers exchange an incredulous look. 

“Look old man, you ain't hurt too bad, so just—” Daryl starts until suddenly the cringing man pulls out a sawed off shotgun, stock wrapped in dirty duct tape, and points it at Merle’s head. “Well damn,” he concludes softly. 

Bigfoot man has a definite crazy look in his eyes as he gnashes his teeth gleefully, arm steady with the weapon. Merle’s face screws up in slowly blossoming fury and he shifts, preparing to attack. Daryl pauses for one instant and in a clean movement fires his bow. The bolt penetrates the man’s forearm, skewering it through, point hitting dirt and pinning his arm to the ground. Merle shouts a triumphant cry and launches himself at the man again, this time snatching up the shotgun and flinging it into the woods and down the hill. 

The old man is now howling, huddling his body around his pinned arm and writhing. Merle looks ready to start the beating again until Daryl kicks him off and does a quick frisk for more weapons. He’s got nothing. “Shut up man, you want the walkers on us?” He plants a foot above the entry point and pulls out the bolt swiftly. It was a good shot, piercing close to the outside flesh and nowhere near any bones or arteries. That doesn’t stop the man from shrieking even more. 

“You not hear my brother, old timer?” Merle says, pointing his handgun at the man’s face. The howls die out instantly and Daryl has the strong suspicion that he’s faking the whole thing. Merle on guard, he fetches the dead turkey and replaces his two bolts on his crossbow, noting that aside from being a little squashed from the dustup, the bird looks fine. 

Bigfoot man glares from one to the other, still on the ground, hands raised in surrender. In an accent that, even by the Dixon’s standards, is thick enough to cut with a knife, he says, “That’s my turkey, boys, I been stalkin' it for hours!”

“Well, I shot it,” Daryl says matter-of-factly. Merle stands, gun still trained on the old man until Daryl gives him a nod. Reluctantly, he holsters his gun and helps the man to his feet. He’s clutching his injured arm, hopping from one foot to the other like a bundle of nerves  
and swearing under his breath. The brothers exchange a glance.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Daryl asks. 

“None yer business!” he shoots back and spits on the ground. Daryl raises an eyebrow and Merle frowns. “Name’s Franklin K. Flannery the third,” he finally grunts defiantly. 

“You live out here alone, Frank?” Daryl asks. 

“I always lived alone, even before the dead rose from their graves and returned to kill the livin',” Frank says, his voice creaky and high pitched with age and getting emotional. “An’ now I got no gun neither and no turkey and a hole in my arm 'cause of you!” 

Daryl squints, looking a little sheepish. “Merle, go fetch Frank’s gun.”

“Go on and fetch it yourself!” Merle returns, sounding offended. 

“You’re the one who went and tossed it, you go an’ get it!” 

“Cuz he had it pointed at my face, that’s why! Let him get his own gun.”

“Merle, just shut up and do it!” he shouts.

Merle huffs for a few seconds before trudging down the hill, muttering to himself. Daryl and the old man stand silently by themselves, the latter making pathetic whimpering sounds and rocking his arm back and forth. After about five minutes Merle calls up the hill, “I can’t find it!”

“Well, keep lookin'!” Daryl returns, louder than he should have. 

There is considerable rustling of leaves and occasional swearing from down the hill until his brother emerges, face scratched and leaves sticking to his shirt. “Forget it, it’s lost, brush down there is a mile thick,” he says.

The old man breaks into a wail that carries through the forest, Daryl and Merle shushing him in a panic. “Shut up!” Daryl hisses. “We’ll go help ya look.”

A half hour later, they are forced to admit that Merle is right, though the brothers suspect that Frank is not looking too hard. More disheveled than usual and muscles aching from kicking through brush and leaves, Daryl grabs his brother and pulls him aside for a minute. “We ain't leaving him out here without a gun.”

“And why not?” Merle says. “This sucker is cooked with or without a gun. He’s crazy as shit and not exactly a spring chicken neither. I know you think you’re Saint Daryl now that you’re with the high and mighty folks but this ain't no concern of ours.”

“Give me your gun, Merle,” Daryl returns darkly. 

“The hell I will.” He makes a move to grab it but Merle holds up his knife strapped hand. “Brother, I don’t want to cut you but I will.” Daryl’s lip curls in disgust after a tense moment as he considers punching him in the face. Finally, he turns on his heel and storms away. 

Frank is waiting for them at the top of the hill. His face has thoroughly swelled up by now from Merle’s administrations and blood has begun dripping from his nose, spilling down his unkempt beard. “Come on old man, we’ll get you back to your camp and patch you up.”

Suddenly Frank falls to his knees and lifts his hands skyward, face tilted up as he shouts in a wavering voice, “O Lord, you have sent these two thieves and killers for the destruction of your servant’s humble flesh. I ask that you give them the compassion to dig an old man’s grave for him before they send me to meet my maker, and bury 'im deep so I can't climb up no more!” 

Merle starts laughing as though this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “We ain't gonna kill you, Frank, get on up,” Daryl says roughly, grabbing the man by his shirt and pulling him standing. Frank collapses his arm over Daryl's shoulder and leans against him, almost a dead weight. “I thought it was your arm that hurts, not your legs,” Daryl mutters. Merle is still doubled over in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. “Glad someone’s having a good day," he says to no one as he drags the old man over the hill, turkey and crossbow clutched in his free hand. 

\----------------------------

Merle pokes a long stick into the fire, stirring up the glowing coals and setting an uncharred bit of wood closer to the catching flames. Beside him sits Frank, his injured arm patched up with a threadbare handkerchief and duct tape, though this does not prevent him from gnawing enthusiastically on a half-cooked turkey leg. The bloody grease drips down his chin and smears the drying blood from his earlier nosebleed. Merle stares at him in disgusted fascination.

Daryl pulls a piece off the turkey skewered over the fire and chews it experimentally. “Ain't done yet,” he says. He gives an aside glance to the old man opposite him. 

“Tell me something Frank,” Merle starts. “How’s an old, old man like you survive out here alone for all this time?”

Frank nods thoughtfully. “The Lord provides,” is all he says. 

“And he takes away too, from what I hear,” Merle says.

Frank nods again. “Yessir, ain't it so. He gone and took away your hand on account of you bein' a thief and a killer.”

Merle glares at him but finally shrugs and grins. “And then he provided me with this mighty fine blade to affix to my hand so as I could kill biters all the better.”

“Yessir, yessir,” Frank repeats absently, now sucking at the cartilage on the leg bone. 

“I’ll get him one of the guns from camp,” Daryl says to his brother. 

Merle shoots him a withering look. “Now I know you did not just say that, baby brother. Here we are preparing to go to war and you wanna give away our guns to a stranger? I don’t think I quite know you anymore.”

Daryl scowls and goes back to fiddling with his crossbow. They both look over at Frank, who is producing loud cracking noises as he snaps the turkey bones open and sucks out the marrow. He has calmed down considerably since their skirmish in the woods. His camp is a lean-to made of felled saplings, covered with pine boughs, and a dirt clearing in front of it for the campfire. The whole place stinks of urine and spoilt food, but it’s at the top of a steep hill that the walkers don’t seem keen to climb yet. 

“How do you two boys know each other?” Frank asks suddenly. 

“We’re brothers,” Daryl answers. He gives the skewered turkey a turn and watches the juices sizzling on the skin. It’s too hot by the fire but it’s comforting somehow.

“I had a brother once. He died in 'Nam,” Frank says. 

“That’s a sad story, old man,” Merle says.

“No, it ain't, 'cause if he was here we would be at each other’s throats an’ one of us would be a dead man.” He sits licking his fingers and eyeing the other turkey leg over the fire. 

Merle reaches over the fire gingerly and saws into the carcass with his bayonet. “Hell, I don’t care if it’s medium rare, I’m too hungry to wait.”

Frank jumps up from the log that serves as his chair with sudden agility and disappears into his lean-to. “I got somethin' for you boys, go right fine on a day like this, been waiting for this I have, yessir,” he mutters while Daryl watches him, tensing. A moment later he emerges, crouching through the low entrance and cradling something close to his chest. 

“Is that—” Merle starts. Frank uprights himself and holds out his cargo. It’s two thirty pack cases of beer, the cardboard boxes faded and water stained but full. “Oh sweet baby Jesus at his mama's breast," he says, a moan of longing spilling from his throat. Daryl eyes the worn cardboard appraisingly while Frank stands, grinning and holding them as though they are priceless treasure. With a flourish he rips open the top of one and tosses a blue can to Merle, who catches it neatly one handed. With a triumphant chuckle he pops the top and is greeted with a satisfying fizz.

"Oh lord, that is the first taste of domestic I have had in a year," he mutters in ecstasy. 

Daryl waits until Frank has taken a sip of his own, just in case. Unless the old man is crazier than he thinks, it's probably all right. He snaps open his own can and takes a chug of warm, slightly sour beer. "That is the stuff, more or less," he says. 

“Boys, this here is the last two cases of Bud in all the South,” Frank says.

“I kinda doubt that,” Daryl mutters, while Merle laughs in glee.

After a couple rounds, when everyone is feeling amiable and pleased with himself, the conversation loosens.

"Nothing like hunting and drinking on a beautiful afternoon to remind a man to be grateful to be alive!" Merle chimes in. It must have been a good long while since he's had alcohol in any appreciable amount, seeing how even the watery beer is affecting his mood. 

"Still's morning," Daryl corrects him.

"What? Now you look at the sun up there, boy. Look at it over that hill. Now you trying to tell me it ain't afternoon? Damn boy, soon as Merle lets you outta his sight you gone and forgot everything he taught you about living out here and taking stock of your surroundings." He's rambling, just like the old days, motor mouth Merle.

"Only 'bout eleven," Daryl persists. He isn't as relaxed as Merle gets, never did take to it that way. A part of him is fanning the embers of anger again, hoping for a fight he knows he won't win. 

Merle blinks at him in disbelief. "Now Frank, Frank you tell us what time it is."

"Damned if I know!" the old man returns matter-of-factly. Merle pauses a moment before letting out a carrying guffaw. He laughs so earnestly that even Daryl cracks a smile. 

"Tell me, old man," Merle says as the leans towards Frank conspiratorially, "how you been living out here so long with the biters an' all."

"Ain't no biters, them's the Lord's judgment come upon us. Gone and wiped out the wicked in the world like the plagues of old." He nods firmly with his head in his beer.

"Now that can't be right, old man, 'cause me and my brother, why we're still here!" Merle laughs again, loudly enough to carry far. Daryl winces, knowing he's letting his guard down but finding it hard to care much. 

"But I done lived out here with the Lord's help. He been taking care of me for a long while now, better'n anyone one of y'all in civilization."

"'Cause the Lord provides," Daryl chimes in morosely. 

Merle shoots him an incredulous look. "Now baby brother, I know you ain't a religious man."

"Shut up Merle, you don't know what's going on in my head," he says with rising anger. 

Merle's hands go up in mock surrender. "Whoo-hoo, boy, I forgot 'bout you bein' Saint Daryl now, humble before the Lord."

"Humble before the Lord," Frank repeats blearily. He has a collection of empty cans around his feet and a fresh one in his hands. 

Daryl finishes up the last gulp in his own and goes for another. The fire is dying down some, still too hot for the weather. Nobody talks for a while, until Frank breaks into song. His voice is wheezy and thin, but it's a nice old song about good times and good company. Merle joins him a few verses in, a soft drunken croon with the heart that he can always muster up even with half his faculties gone, but Daryl is silent. They go on like this for a good long while, until it really is after noon.

Daryl is now semi-sprawled on the ground, leaning against a fallen log. There can't be many beers left in the cardboard case because their campsite is littered with empties. Frank and Merle talk about something he's not listening to. 

"Merle?" he says. His brother stops mid-sentence and looks at him. "Can't nobody make it in this world alone." 

Somehow he knows where this is going. "Brother, you best stop looking at my gun because I am not prepared to give it over to an old man I don't hardly know. No offense," he says to Frank. Frank grunts good-naturedly.

"So I'll get him one from camp."

"Oh no, boy, ain't no way that's gonna happen. You know what we got coming up down in that prison of yours? A war, that's what, and one we ain't gonna win on account of us having no guns and no bullets."

"Just like my brother in 'Nam," Frank says in a tremulous voice. 

"Just so. Now I don’t know about you, but I don't have too high hopes for what your pals are gonna scrounge up for us in town. More likely than not we ain't gonna have no more guns than what we brought in with us, and I know what the Governor and his boys got and it's more than that. So don't get any charitable thoughts in your head when we got us a battle coming."

"Naw, Merle, listen man. It's like Frank was saying. The Lord provides."

"Yessir, yessir," Frank mutters. 

Merle scowls. "Seems to me he's already providing for Frank, look at him up here eating this turkey we caught—"

"That was my turkey," Frank cuts in.

"That my brother provided!"

"Merle, they're gonna get us the stuff. You don't know them like I do."

"Now little brother, you listen to me but good. We ain't giving nothing to this old man. Nada."

Frank seems to rouse himself at this, and with a grumble he leans towards Merle and tries to snatch away his half-empty beer can, muttering something about hospitality. 

"Set yourself back down, old man," Merle says, gently pushing him away. Frank isn't happy but he seems too drunk to fight back much.

Daryl falls back into silence, the simmering kind that makes him feel like when he was a kid and he could never stop anything. Merle's going off again about something that he doesn't want to hear. His hands go over his crossbow, tugging at the string like he's testing the draw. It's done right by him, let him live out here without fear. Finally he gets up, stumbling a little and moves around the fire to sit next to Frank.

"Frank," he says. Frank turns to him with unfocused eyes and a silly grin on his face. "I want you to have this." He sets the bow in his lap and the old man's hand automatically grip it. It looks strange being held by someone else and Daryl feels oddly protective of it, half of him wanting to snatch it back.

Frank looks from the bow to him, uncertainty on his face. Daryl nods firmly and finally the old man's face splits in a grin. Instantly he is on his feet, cradling the crossbow and hooting triumphantly. He dances around the fire with it like a little boy on Christmas.

"Hey, that ain't a toy," Daryl says.

Frank is already positioning himself to pull back the string. "Now what you think he's gonna do with that? That old man can barely—" Merle starts. Quick as a flash, Frank has the bow nocked expertly, bolt in place and ready. Merle starts laughing, slapping his knee. Suddenly Frank points the bow right at his head, that crazy grin back and menacing. 

"Old Frank got a few tricks, don't he?" he cackles. 

"Aw, hell," Merle mutters, raising his arms in the air, one armed with a knife and the other a beer can.

Daryl blinks and slowly shakes his head. "Frank, I'd like to thank you for a fine day. I hope you do all right out here."

Frank looks from one brother to the other, crafty eyes glinting. "Go on now, git!" He gestures with the bow down the hill until Merle drags himself up, takes one final swig from the can, and joins his brother in their hands-raised march down the hill. They can hear Frank's cackling laugh even after they're out of sight. 

Alone now in the woods, the brothers walk silently, save for the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. Daryl hears a pop and hiss and turns to see Merle with a fresh beer can in his one good hand. 

"Ought’ve grabbed the whole rest of 'em too after that. You're a crazy son of a bitch, brother."

"Yep."

"Whatchya think you're gonna do when the troops come rolling in now, huh?"

"This ain't no cowboys and Indians, man, this is gonna be a gun battle. Wouldn't have helped us anyway."

"Boy, are you a sap." Merle takes a noisy slurp and ponders. "The Lord provides." They walk almost to the river, just close enough to see that the two walkers are still stuck there on the opposite bank. "Go on and take my gun, bro. I only got one good hand and it's occupied at the moment." 

Daryl takes it and sticks it in his waistband, missing the familiar weight of the bow across his back. He feels plenty sober now and wishes he'd grabbed a last beer too.

"Quit lookin' at my beer, I ain't handin' anything else over," Merle says. He finishes the can in one mighty swig and crushes it flat one handed. They stand at the riverbank and Merle tosses the flat disk of aluminum across the water like a skipping rock. It skims the water one time before faltering and sinking below the surface. Daryl can't tell if the two walkers noticed it or not. 

"Reckon they're back by now, best get movin'," Merle says. 

"Nothing to bring home," Daryl says with regret, thinking of Frank back with that turkey. 

Merle sniggers next to him. "Home now, huh?"

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl mutters. As they walk back to the prison, his brother picks up where he left off with his bastardized gospel tune.


End file.
